


Distant

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Post-Abusive Relationship, not as depressing as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is distant. Courfeyrac finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings! There's a post-abusive relationship, and mentions of self harm.

Jehan was distant.

It wasn’t that he just wasn’t as clingy as Courfeyrac’s past flings, Jehan Prouvaire was truly distant. 

It occurred to him once that it may have just been Jehan being Jehan, but when he looked at his boyfriend when he was around their friends, he couldn’t believe such lies. 

Jehan was quite touchy when it came to them, often hugging or cuddling them. It was almost as if he ran off of touch, so why did he refuse to so much as brush hands with Courfeyrac? 

Finally, he had to confront him about it. 

They were in Jehan’s flat, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. The blonde man was curled up, feet tucked under him as he braided his hair absently. Courfeyrac watched him for a while, before finally speaking. 

“Why can’t we do . . . anything?” 

The clever movement of Jehan’s fingers stopped. “I don’t know what you mean.” He replied softly, face hidden by his hair. The movement resumed, only slower this time. 

“Yeah, you do, Jean. I mean, I get it, but we’ve been dating for nearly eight months, and we haven’t even held hands yet.” 

“So?” Jehan said, soft voice hardening just a bit. 

“I like you, really, it’s just . . . you’re comfortable with all of our friends.” 

“That’s different.” 

Courfeyrac bit his lip, realizing that this wasn’t quite going the way he wanted it to. “I know, it just makes me wonder if you really like me.” 

The hand that was at his hair fell away, but he didn’t look up. “Of course I really like you, Courfeyrac.” 

Shifting closer, the brunette glanced down at him. “Then what’s the problem? Please, Jehan, you can trust me.” 

Jehan’s hair fell out of his braid, and it was hanging in his green eyes when he looked at the wall. “I think it’d be best if you leave.” 

“Jean. . .” 

“Please.” 

His voice sounded so soft, so broken that Courfeyrac wanted so desperately to help him, but at the same time didn’t want to break this perfect flower, to crumple his petals under his weight. 

He stood up wordlessly, collecting his things in silence. Jehan didn’t speak, didn’t move, only stared at the wall. 

Courfeyrac left, although he nearly had to drag himself out of the flat. 

He worried for hours, before deciding to visit Grantaire. He was Jehan’s best friend. Maybe he could shed some light on the situation.  
\--  
When he opened the door Grantaire was, by all appearances, sober. 

“Courf,” He said, running a hand through his hair. His arms and shirt were covered in paint, and he looked better than Courfeyrac had ever seen him before. “What are you doing here?” 

Grantaire led him in and shut the door, moving to the kitchen to wash his hands. 

“I wanted to talk about Jehan.” Courfeyrac said quietly, removing his coat and setting it down. 

Grantaire’s hands stilled under the running water. “And what about him?” 

“He’s just. . . he’s always hugging you, and the others, but. . . never me. And when I asked him about it, he had me leave.” 

Grantaire got an especially dark look on his face as he dried his hands, gesturing for Courfeyrac to sit on the couch. Once he did, the artist sat down beside him. 

“About a year ago, Jehan started dating this guy,” Grantaire began, voice lowered as if telling an important secret. “And at first, he was really happy, always leaving meetings early to see him, you remember.” 

Courfeyrac nodded, vaguely remembering the days when Jehan was made of even more sunshine and rainbows than he always was. 

“Well, about a month after they started dating, he started getting really. . . weird. We tried to help, and figure out what was wrong. But the more we pushed, the more he distanced himself from us.”

Courfeyrac nodded, face creased with worry. What could possibly be distancing Jehan from his friends? 

Grantaire looked hesitant, but he finally continued. 

“And then one day he came in with a black eye. And a limp. And, well, we figured out what was wrong.” 

Courfeyrac gasped, eyes wide. Who would ever want to hurt sweet Jehan? 

The man nodded, leaning back on his sofa. “Yeah. We tried to convince him to let us help, but he wouldn’t. And we couldn’t keep him after meetings late, or you know what would’ve happened.” 

Anger vaguely ignited in Courfeyrac, even if it was something of the past. 

“So for a while, none of us made any progress. He’d come in with bruises and limps and sometimes cuts. We couldn’t do anything more, so we just healed what we could. We had to be careful, though. Joly stitched him up once and he came back the next week with the damn things ripped out.” 

Now, Courfeyrac only put a hand to his mouth, feeling sick. “Really?” 

The brunette nodded softly, hating the vivid memory. “Really. It went on like that for, maybe three months. Then, it got worse.

“He came into the Musain after most everyone left, we were just waiting around in case he called or showed up. Or maybe we were hoping. He _always_ came to the meetings. We thought something awful’d happened. When he came in, he looked like death. His hair was all mussed and he had blood all over his sweater, and he was crying. And that was when he told us everything.” 

Grantaire looked down, falling silent. “What’d he do?” Courfeyrac asked, and the artist scoffed. 

“What didn’t he do?” He asked wryly, shaking his head in disgust. “Beat him, yelled at him . . .” 

He trailed off, and Courfeyrac didn’t ask for more. “Did you kill him?” 

Grantaire laughed softly, and shook his head. “If only. No, but we found out where he lived and had Bahorel beat him to a pulp. Then, we sent him to jail.” 

Courfeyrac nodded, feeling just a bit more relieved. “Good. I’m glad. That’s just . . .” 

“Awful. Yeah.” He suddenly stood up, looking down at a pot of flowers. He could only assume they came from Jehan. “He’s not one to be underestimated, you know. He can handle himself. But when it comes to stuff like that. . . he just wanted to keep him happy. Jehan’s too trusting. That asshole ruined him.” 

Courfeyrac nodded, understanding. It made sense. The menacing glares from his own friends started making sense, too. 

“I’d never do that to him. I couldn’t.” 

Grantaire put the kettle on, leaning against the counter, watching. “I know. I think Jehan knows it, too. He’s just scared. He thought that about the last one. It’s hard. How long did it take you to get him to even go out with you?” 

“Four months.” 

“Right. He likes you. But you’d just gotta let him take his time.” 

The tension was high, so Courfeyrac tried for a joke. “Yeah. Maybe he’ll hold my hand one of these days.” 

He laughed, pouring two cups of tea and sitting back down. He offered one to Courfeyrac and he took it. “Really? I’m surprised you haven’t given up yet.” 

He took a sip of his tea and leaned back against the couch cushions, shrugging. “I’m in love with him.” 

Grantaire sputtered, managing to swallow his tea rather than expelling it all over his couch. “ _What?_ ” 

Courfeyrac grinned, and Grantaire saw it. It was the face of a man who was entirely, completely in love. He saw it every day on other people, on himself, on Jehan both one year ago and just a day before when he all but burst into his flat with a pot of flowers (always a pot, never a vase, because “I don’t believe in killing something for the likes of you”). 

“Yeah. He’s just-he’s perfect. Really, really, perfect.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help but smile. “Good. You should tell him that. He hasn’t heard it in a while.” 

Courfeyrac nodded, still smiling. Then, his phone started ringing, a flowery theme that Jehan probably picked. He set down his tea and and dug the mobile out of his pocket, answering without looking at the name on the screen. “Jehan? Hey, yeah, of course I can.” 

He stood up and paced around the room. 

“Hey, Courf. I just wanted to apologize. You know, for kicking you out. I just panicked, I guess.” 

“No, no, it’s okay. I was pushing. It’s not my business.” 

“Yeah, it is. See, about a year ago-” 

“Jehan?” Courfeyrac interrupted, sensing his boyfriend’s nervousness. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s okay.” 

He sounded relieved. “Okay. Thanks. Maybe you could come back? We could try again.” 

Courfeyrac smiled brightly and picked up his coat, sending an apologetic look to Grantaire before all but running out of the flat. “I’m already on my way.”   
\--  
When Jehan opened his door, Courfeyrac was standing there with a pot of flowers (“not a bouquet, he doesn’t support flower murder,”), grinning. 

The poet smiled happily, green eyes brightening as he took the flowers. Their fingers brushed together, but Jehan didn’t flinch. He sniffed the flowers and his face brightened, nodding. 

“Oh, Courf. They’re absolutely wonderful.” 

He swept around the flat, leaving Courfeyrac to let himself in.

Jehan set the roses in the sun and reached up to open the shades, his sleeve falling down to reveal age-old scars across his pale skin. Both the self-inflicted sort and not, Courfeyrac took skill not to wince and looked away, deciding it was best to pretend he hadn’t seen anything, for both of their sakes. There were no new scars, after all, and he knew Grantaire would’ve mentioned if it was still going on. 

Jehan bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, tugging the sleeve of his green sweater down. 

He shook his head to clear it and smiled again. “Thank you. I love them.” 

Courfeyrac nodded softly and watched Jehan, waiting until he settled himself on the couch to sit near him, never touching. If Jehan wanted it, he’d initiate it. 

“Jehan, I’m sorry. What I said was stupid, and rude, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Jehan smiled softly and, very carefully, settled a hand under the brunette’s. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. You do now, though, right?” 

Courfeyrac nodded, slowly twining their fingers together. He was careful in his movements, remembering to give Jehan the opportunity to pull away if he wanted to. “Yeah. I know.” 

The poet gave a small nod, letting their fingers join. Instead of a spike of fear, he felt a flutter in his gut. Then, Courfeyrac continued. “I would never do that to you, Jehan. You’re too perfect. And I’m not _that_ stupid. And, and I’m in love with you.” 

Suddenly, arms wrapped around him and a body came at Courfeyrac so quickly that he was knocked down, landing on the couch with a blonde boy on top of him. 

Surprise took over for a moment, before Jehan leaned down and kissed him, long fingers running through his dark hair. 

Jehan pulled away with a smile, a pink blush coloring his cheeks. His unbraided hair hung on one side, shielding them from the sunny window. 

“Oh, Courf.” He said, smiling serenely at the brunette finally wrapped his arms around his slim waist. “I love you, too.” 

From them on, they were never seen apart and were always touching, holding hands, or, in extreme conditions, kissing. 

Obscenely. 

Yeah. They’d be fine.


End file.
